Crinkled blades tumble
along a fanged cemetery lane.
Tell me: Whose flourish embellishes
Jehovah’s scripture? To wit:
“Our Woodhouse went forth
and gathered sticks,
and kindled a fire,
and left it burning.”

A contrite stone of few words
speaks loud rebuke.
Despite baroque aspirations of statuary
an elegy of moss persists. Listen:

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Copyright 2015


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